


Rekindled

by Anjelle



Category: One Piece
Genre: Modern Setting, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anjelle/pseuds/Anjelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't know who the man was, where he came from or why he was there, but he didn't care. For the first time in what he felt was forever, he felt safe. Hundreds of years after One Piece, Marco meets Ace's reincarnation. And thus begins our story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

I remember the first time I met him, looked up into those clear blue eyes, tilting my head curiously as I'd never seen him before. He towered over my small body, looking down with a pain I could never understand.

"Hurt?" I had asked, not understanding what that sadness in his eyes stemmed from—the cause of those tears. He simply smiled at me, betraying the pain to kneel down. When he was close I had wondered if he was sick, or simply tired. He looked like he needed sleep. I couldn't comprehend how worn he was, spending an unfair life confined to a form that simply continued to exist, even what everything he knew turned to dust.

When his hands cupped my cheeks, it tickled. They were so calloused and rough—strong—yet held tenderness I, at that age, took for granted. I didn't know what he'd been through, what those hands had done. As a child, you don't wonder things like that. You're only concerned with the here and now, not what came before. Still, the warmth those hands brought with them was unforgettable. It wiped every question from my mind, replacing them with one thought.

_It's okay. He's here. He'll protect me._

To this day, I sometimes wonder if he understood just how much comfort he brought me in that moment—in every moment after.

When his Adam's apple bobbed up and down in a swallow, I could see that he was hesitant. It didn't make sense to me, at the time, but maybe it didn't have to. Maybe I was too young.

Then, he spoke.

"Do you know who I am?" he'd asked.

I, oblivious to the second question hidden between those words, shook my head. His smile faltered but never left as he brushed my bangs from my eyes. For a man as big and intimidating as him, he was gentle. He treated me like glass—like I would crumble beneath his fingertips.

"I'm Marco," he said.

I tried the word out for myself, "Marco," earning an affirmative nod. I didn't understand why he was telling me—thought we were simply introducing ourselves—and pointed to myself, saying a quick "Ace." His tears started up again, warm water trailing down his cheeks as his face contorted into something I couldn't grasp at the time. It was then that he pulled me in, held me close, and wrapped me in the safety of his arms.

"I know," he whispered, voice cracking as he fought back silent cries, "I know."

Unsure of what was wrong, I simply returned the embrace, bunching his shirt in my fists. Neither of us moved for a long while. I didn't know how many minutes passed; it was like the moment was trying to stretch into infinity, to keep us from moving on. It wanted us to stay just as we were, together in a hug more endearing than my young mind could fathom. I didn't know who he was, where he came from or why he was there, but I didn't care, either. I just kept holding on, clutching fast to that shirt so that I wouldn't lose him. He was a stranger but… I didn't want him to go.

"I found you," he uttered softly against my ear, "I found you, Ace."

I remained quiet, allowing him the moment, hoping that I could help alleviate some of the hurt in his voice. If I knew how long it would be before we next met, I wonder what would have changed. Would I have remained quiet? Would I have simply allowed our meeting to pass, just as it did, without making more of an impact?

Would I have asked him to stay?

I didn't know who he was or where he came from, but the feeling of his fingers in my hair and the sound of his heart beating close to my chest filled me with a nostalgic warmth that, to this day, remains just out of reach.


	2. My Childish Fantasy

I think the biggest setback to my development as a child was my father. That wasn't to say I hated him—I never had a chance. He was never there. When you grow up with such a crippled parental relationship, it doesn't feel like your genetic donor is much of a factor in your life, even if he's the one paying the bills. I didn't have much of a concept of money back then, or wealth. Naively I thought everyone grew up just like me, experienced the same things. I thought that they, too, had fathers that were more shadows than real people.

My mom never seemed to mind his absence. I asked about him once after seeing a photo of them together, set before my birth. She didn't get upset. Her pale figure knelt next to mine, pulling me close as we stared at the picture behind glass. She ran her fingers through my hair absently while staring at his face.

"He's a wonderful man," she told me. I was only two at the time, so I believed her without question. I nodded and smiled, even while feeling her trembling fingers brush against my arm, the endearing kiss she placed against the skin of my forehead. Lying was never a factor in my mind, not because of my age but because it was her. I only ever heard the truth from her. And I knew that she believed those words unconditionally, even in all of her loneliness.

When my father sent letters, my mother would sit me down on her lap and read them to me. Now I know that it was more for her than it was me, but as a child I didn't put any thought into it. It was just a tradition of sorts, like celebrating a birthday or eating a big meal with the family during the holidays. The importance she put into assuring my father was still there for us went over my head.

One day, when reading a letter, she covered her mouth. I simply blinked up at her, tilting my head when she didn't start reading. It worried me, seeing her watery eyes scroll over that same set of script. Then, wordlessly, she embraced me.

"It hurt?" I asked, hearing her cry muffled sobs against my hair.

She shook her head, stroking my back. "I'm happy," she declared. "Do you want to meet Daddy?"

I didn't really get it. My father seemed almost like a storybook character. That's all he ever was—a bedtime story my caretaker used to lull me to sleep. That's why it didn't make sense to me at three years old. He wasn't real, right? But she had been waiting for that. I could tell just by looking into her hopeful eyes, that smile that made it feel like everything was right. She wanted that, so I nodded. I pretended that Daddy was more than a fairy-tale character. I acted like he was real for her because, at that age, what else was I good at? My imagination allowed the sentiment to appear genuine, and she was happy with that.

That was my first time on a plane—hers, too.

It was a cold place. She brought me to North America that Christmas, but I don't remember where, exactly. The buildings stretched into the sky. At night there were billions of lights, all different shapes and colours, but they weren't from the sky. They weren't stars. In a way, they scared me. It was different from home and I didn't like it.

What I did like was the snow.

Mom had a crudely drawn map in her hand. As she tried to figure it out, I played. Snow was a rarity in my home country, so I relished in it. My fingertips turned numb, even through the warmth of my mittens. My nose reddened but I didn't care, building and packing my new favourite toy into crude piles that I considered works of art. It was the one good thing that redeemed our trip, which I probably ruined for my mother by consistently asking, "We go home now?"

I forgot my surroundings and when I finally turned around to show my masterpiece to my mother, she was gone. I looked left then right and as realization dawned on me I started feeling just how cold I was. My hands burned. My eyes stung as they watered, frigid air beating harshly against them. Feeling helplessness surround me, I sat with my back against a railing separating land from the harsh drop to a partially frozen river and hugged my knees to my chest, trying to keep warm. I was scared. At three years old I was left alone in the darkness of a foreign country.

All sorts of things ran through my head. Did she leave me here? Was a bad? Did I make her mad?

Will she come back?

The crunch of boots against snow eventually stopped my dark thoughts. I don't know how long I had been sitting there, but if the thin film of snow accumulating on my head and shoulders was any indication, it'd been some time. Hesitantly I looked up, hoping to be met with my mother's dark eyes and sweet, sweet smile. But she wasn't there. Instead towering over me was a tall, blond man. His eyes were brighter than I'd ever seen—in my country, at least. Blue eyes seemed more common there. Amidst the darkness and snow, they were piercing.

I froze in place, rigid and trembling with cold. In all honesty, he scared me—didn't seem like the friendly type, especially to a boy who wasn't even three feet tall. But my fear dissipated when, instead of attacking me, he simply returned my stare.

I remember his expression well—eyes wide, looking at me with an odd mix of shock and fondness. It was kind of like he was seeing a ghost with how conflicted he looked, unsure of whether he should smile or cry. When I saw that and his trembling lip, any ounce of caution I had blew away with the wind. Getting to my feet, I tilted my head curiously, my tears drying as I forgot that I was alone.

He looked pained. He looked conflicted. Looking back now, he looked a lot like my mother had whenever her lover was mentioned. I can appreciate that more now, even though the concept escaped me back then.

"Hurt?" I asked, the urge to help alleviate his pain swelling in my chest. I didn't understand but even still I wanted to help him. My response seemed to do more harm than good, though, as his lip quivered. What must he have felt then? What was going through his head as he looked down at me with such a forced smile, betraying everything told in his eyes? He never answered my question.

Then the man knelt in the snow, ignoring the icy temperature as he cupped my cheeks. His hands were warm. They erased every instance of chill from my body and any lingering doubt I had was erased. He was safe. He was good. He would  _never_ hurt me.

Everything about his touch was contradictory. His rough, calloused hands were just as gentle as they were firm, holding a strength I can't fathom, even to this day. Those blue eyes drooped. He was tired—so,  _so_  tired. It must have hurt to be the oldest man in the world. It must have hurt to be the last remaining shred of a forgotten era. But I didn't know about that. I was still just three years old.

I don't think he ever understood how much he helped me then—helped to make me feel like, even though my mother was gone, everything was going to be okay.

"Do you know who I am?"

I blinked, shaking my head. Was I supposed to? When his features twisted into something akin to pain, I wanted to take it back. But that would be lying. Still, through whatever internal conflict he experienced, he smiled.

"I'm Marco."

"Marco?" I repeated, assuring I heard correctly. He nodded and I, oblivious to what was going on, decided to introduce myself as well. "Ace," I declared, pointing to myself.

He pulled me close, held me tight. In the dead of winter, covered in snow, I felt warm. "I know," he said in a broken, trembling whisper, "I know."

_"Your father's strong, Ace. He's the strongest, bravest man in the world. But he's also very, very gentle. He loves you, you know. And even though he can't be here right now, he still cares. You're always in his heart."_

For a moment, forgetting the photo I saw before, I thought that maybe my mother had been talking about him when she said that. Something about him made it feel like she was describing the stranger hugging me close in the falling snow. Maybe that wouldn't have been so bad. Thinking that, I returned the hold, clutching fast to his clothes, my small arms wrapping as far around his back as they could.

"I found you," he uttered softly, tenderly, "I found you, Ace."

I didn't understand what he meant, but allowed him the moment. When he pulled away, he removed the scarf from his neck and wrapped it around mine. A salty smell wafted my nose, reminding me of the sea. It mixed with a strong, strange scent—like Grandpa Garp on New Year's Eve.

"You warm?" he asked, that same tenderness crossing over to his features.

When I nodded, a smile finally reaching my face, he placed his large hand on my head and ruffled my hair, leaving it a disorganized mess. I didn't mind. I'd taken an instant liking to Marco, though he confused me.

Before another word could be said, I heard my name called. My head shot to the side where, running through the flurries of snow, was my mother. I felt tears swell in my eyes and bolted towards her without a second thought. She wrapped me in her arms, held me tight, muttering scolding reprimands for running off. In all honesty, I was so busy playing that I never realized that I'd disappeared from her line of vision. Then, caressing the back of my head, she murmured, "I'm so happy I found you."

I was happy, too—so happy that I forgot who I was just with until she pulled a way, smiling down at me, and noticed the white scarf wrapped around my neck. When she asked about it I remembered, turning back to Marco.

He walked away.

Back turned to me, he trudged through the snow, eyes forward as he walked. I tilted my head and wondered where he was going, not wanting to see him leave. He was nice. He was warm. And now he was gone. Nevertheless, I pointed.

Mom rose to her feet and cupped her mouth, shouting, "Thank you!"

His response was a lazy wave, but not once did he look back.

The suite we stayed at was lavish, contrasting greatly with our small house back home. I ran around, exploring the many different rooms until the intercom sounded and my mother called me back to the front door. When it opened to reveal a tall, bulky man in a suit, she broke down, leaping into his arms. It didn't make sense to me, but I didn't question it. He spun her around, a jolly laugh escaping his lips.

It was only when the man turned to me that I glimpsed his features—piercing eyes, tanned skin and a large moustache. He was Asian, I could tell from his features. Mom was French, or partially—I learned later that her father was from somewhere else—but my father was Japanese, leaving me a mix of the two. Even at age three, it wasn't hard for me to deduce who that stranger was, regardless of seeing his picture before or not.

Dad picked me up, holding me high above his head as he 'got a good look at his little boy' or whatever. I wasn't very comfortable with it, but he didn't seem to have ill intentions. Still, I hid behind Mom's leg when he finally put me back down. She was safe. Dad? Wasn't so sure about him.

They thought I was asleep when they finally started talking. Seeing the living room lights on, I got up to investigate. They were there, at the table, sitting across from one another with stern expressions that betrayed their earlier attachment. I hid behind the bedroom doorframe, watching as Mom absently rubbed her growing stomach. Her eyes were focused on the steaming cup of coffee set in front of her, looking anywhere but Dad. In a way, she reminded me of myself whenever I got into trouble—avoiding eye contact with shame.

Dad—or Roger, as I preferred to call him—was rubbing his fingers with clear unease. I didn't really get it.

"It's his," he stated rather than asked, earning a flinch from my mother, "Dragon's."

Reluctantly she nodded, still rubbing circles into her belly, as if to assure the tiny life growing inside her that everything would be alright.

I remembered Uncle Dragon well. Periodically he would show up at our house, offering to help Mom with whatever she needed during my father's two-year absence. He was a scary man who constantly looked angry. Grandpa Garp once told me that the first time I saw him, I cried. I believed it. But despite his looks, he was always watching out for us. He was there when the man from the fairy-tales was not. Mom's smile was sincere when she told me that I was going to be a big brother, but now she looked ashamed. I didn't like it—didn't like how Roger was making her hurt.

I didn't understand what she had done.

Eventually he rose from his seat. I clutched tightly to the doorframe, worried he was going to hurt her further, but the man surprised me when he took her into his arms and rubbed her back as she cried into his shirt. Roger said he didn't blame her—that he was sorry, leaving us for so long. Suddenly he didn't seem so bad.

They noticed me then. My mom rubbed her eyes, smiling as she gestured me over. I complied, greeted with a kiss to my cheek and a pat to my head.

Christmas came and went. New Years, too. Roger spent every minute he could with us, showering my mom and I with gifts, likely trying to gain my favour—especially considering my birthday was January 1st, when I  _officially_  made it to three years of age. We were practically strangers after all, genetics be damned. Every night the three of us would sit down in the master bedroom, me in the middle, brainstorming names for my future sibling. My mom wanted a girl—said Lucy would be perfectly fitting. Roger, of course, wanted another boy but couldn't think of any names. Looking back, the simple fact that he was treating Mom's unborn offspring as his own was really admirable. Most men wouldn't be able to do that. He really loved her, huh?

The time came for our return trip to Japan. I was surprised, and maybe a little glad, that he bought a third plane ticket. Things seemed to change after that. Mom was happier, I knew. The whole flight home she leaned against Roger's shoulder, her fingers intertwined with his. We moved from that small house—needed to make room for the kid, though I'll always miss my first home. Dad paid for everything. I wasn't used to the huge amount of excess space we had but, well, he had the cash. I didn't hear anyone complaining.

May 5th arrived all too quickly and our excitement turned to dread when complications arose. I'm not sure what went wrong, but the doctor said Rouge—that Mom wasn't going to make it. He used a lot of big words that my young mind couldn't comprehend. I held to my dad's hand as he screamed at them, demanding they  _help her._  When the doctor nodded and promptly hurried to the delivery room, that big, daunting man crouched down and held me close. His voice trembled. "It'll be okay," he said. "I won't let her leave you."

Three hours later, the door opened again. The tension escaped Roger's shoulders as he walked into the recovery room, carrying me, looking down at her sickly skin tone and closed eyes.

Soft breathing.

He deflated, kissing her forehead. When she woke to look up at us and smile, Dad hugged us both. "Don't scare me like that!" he commanded, voice betraying his features.

Then I got to see him. Luffy, they called him—though Roger demanded a more 'manly' name at first. I liked it. It suited him well. My baby brother.

Next Christmas the four of us returned to North America, that same suite. In the back of my mind I always remembered my encounter from before. Bundling myself up for the harsh winter air, I secured a well-kept white scarf around my neck and headed to the river with my dad. I never told him why I wanted to go there and he never asked.

Of course, Marco never showed. I didn't really expect him to. And just like that, my father became the reality and the blond foreigner from before receded from conscious thought into yet another fairy tale. After so many years, I forgot all about that day.

But that scarf was there to keep me warm throughout the harshest of colds. In his stead, it kept me safe. The one, small proof that he was real.

Marco.

My stupid, childish fantasy.


	3. A Day in the Life

I was a pain in the ass as a teenager. Looking back I blame it on hormones, but secretly I know that I just enjoyed being difficult. It was probably around thirteen that I tried distancing myself from my family—too good for them and all that. After all, I had an image to uphold. It wasn't a very good image, but I digress. I suppose it was just something a lot of kids go through at some point or another, but I still feel bad. The reason I never wanted kids was because, well, I didn't want to deal with a cheeky brat as annoying as myself.

To Luffy, my irreplaceable little brother, I was the most amazing person on Earth. He was the one person I didn't coldly shove to the side, mainly because he fed my ego. Selfish reasons aside, I'd say I was a pretty good big brother. I helped him with his homework—which was harder than it sounds because the boy just  _didn't get it._  Most evenings ended with me shouting in frustration, storming up to my room to bang my head against the wall until I lost enough brain cells to think it was a good idea to apologise and try again. And the cycle continued.

"But wouldn't it be 6?"

I released a shivering, irritated sigh as I massaged my temple.  _He's just a kid,_  I repeated as a mantra,  _don't get mad. He just doesn't know any better._  Often times I found myself wondering where he got it from. Our parents were of about average intelligence—though sometimes it seemed like Mom knew  _everything_ —and even I, despite my attitude problems, was in the top tier of my class. It had to be Dragon. His genes were defective or something. Still, he was my adorable little brother. I couldn't bring myself to dislike the boy.

So, preparing to repeat myself half a dozen times, I answered. "No, Luffy," I groaned. "We're multiplying, not adding."

"So?" he questioned.

" _So,_  the answer is 9." Grabbing a spare sheet of paper, I scratched three groups of lines. "Think of multiplying like counting groups, okay?"

He nodded vigorously, feigning understanding. I knew he needed more of an explanation than that.

"You have three groups of 3. See?" Again, he nodded. "Alright, count the number of lines."

He did so, mouthing each number until reaching the last one, exclaiming "9!"

"Good. So what's 3 times 3?"

"6!"

My head hit the table with a loud  _thump._  That kid needed more help than I could give. Sometimes I felt tearing out my hair would've been appropriate. I never did, though, because I was thirteen and hair was important.

It was about a week after I graduated elementary school that things started to change. Thankfully my dad  _finally_  got a tutor for Luffy, meaning I didn't have to damage my skull any further. But that wasn't all Roger did. He'd been gone overseas for about a month and missed my graduation, though I never really expected him to show up in the first place. As much as my father cared about us, he had an odd habit of disappearing for long stretches. Mom didn't mind, but it meant that he wasn't there for a lot of life events—mine and Luffy's first days of school, for example.

I suppose his actions were probably a result of my recent anti-social behaviour. Most of my negativity was shoved onto him because, no matter how much of a phase I was going through, I would never treat my mother like I hated her. Maybe it was in part due to the size of our house. Upkeep was difficult. While it wasn't enormous, it was hard for only two adults and a moody teenager to constantly clean on top of everything else we were doing.

Roger gathered us in the living room. Luffy sat in my lap—a childish habit he hadn't quite grown out of—and I next to our mother. We waited for quite some time. At one point we could hear his low whispers coming from the foyer, but remained still.

In walked Dad, huge grin on his face as usual, promising that whatever he did was  _likely_  something his loving wife wouldn't approve of. Oh, right—my parents got married when Luffy turned six. Mom pressured him into it, saying she wanted him to show his commitment. Anything for the missus, right?

So there he stood before us proudly. He went to open his mouth, but never had a chance to speak.

"What did you do?" Mom asked dryly, arms folded as she sent him an 'it-better-be-good' look.

"Daddy's in trouble, shishishi!" Luffy added, grinning widely.

Roger scratched the back of his head, smile faltering a bit. "You're supposed to be on my side, my boy."

When Luffy merely stuck out his tongue, our father turned to me, eyes hopeful. Being my moody self, I turned away, face scrunched up in disapproval.

He sighed before regaining his earlier bravado, grin returning. I never voiced my opinion out loud, but I always found Luffy to be more similar to Roger than Dragon. They had the same smile, hearty laughs and confidence even when they were doomed for failure.

And the sales pitch began.

"I've hired some help," he stated, continuing to stand in the middle of the living room floor. No one said anything but from the corner of my eye I could see my mother cross her arms. She probably already knew what he was about to say. "He's a good friend of mine," meaning they met less than a year ago, "and he's been looking for a place to stay," meaning my mother was going to commit brutal homicide.

"No," she outright refused, glaring at her husband.

"Honey, just—"

" _No,_ " she repeated firmly, raising her voice ever so slightly. Rouge, while a very understanding woman, could be very stubborn. In that case, I was with her. We didn't know the guy and already my father was implying he stay there— _live_  there, with his wife and two sons, under the same roof. Of course she wasn't going to just happily accept him into her home.

Dad sighed again, walking nearer to the couch. He crouched down, taking her hand in his as he whispered into her ear. After a moment of silence, she gave a reluctant nod and stood. He smiled triumphantly, turning to the doorway that led to the foyer. "Come meet the boys!" he shouted merrily. "We'll be back in a minute."

Rough translation: Dad won. No matter the circumstances, if my mother agreed to speak to him in private, he always got his way. The man could be  _very_  persuasive when he wanted to be—which was why Mom rarely gave him a chance to explain himself.

I wonder what he said to make her give in.

As our parents shuffled into the kitchen, footsteps clanked against the tiled floor of the foyer. I held Luffy, who had slipped off my lap at some point, close to me, protectively. Just because Roger trusted him didn't mean I would.

In walked a tall blond—an obvious foreigner no matter how you looked at him. Clad in a dark gray suit and white dress shirt, he stepped into the room. He glanced our way and I tensed my muscles, the piercing blue of his half-lidded eyes intimidating me, but I would never admit that out loud. I was too proud.

The man's eyes seemed to linger on me before moving to my brother, an unreadable expression on his face. I didn't like him. He seemed… dangerous. Suddenly I was hoping I was wrong—that Roger hadn't won and that my mother would continue to refuse his proposition.

Luffy didn't hold the same reserves as I. Before I had a chance to stop him, the brat pulled away from my protective hold and hopped over to the stranger, beaming up at him with childish excitement.

"Are you the guy that's gonna help Mommy and Daddy?" he asked bluntly, tugging on the man's pant leg. I resisted the urge to get up and drag him away from the blond. The kid was just too trusting.

At first the man was taken off-guard by the question, likely perplexed by Luffy's upfront personality. Most kids weren't as bold as him, I'll admit. Then he nodded, glimpsing my way for a brief moment.

My brother laughed. "I'm Luffy!" he declared, grinning his widest.

The man offered a polite smile, answering simply with "Marco." The name rang through my head, a spark of familiarity coursing through my brain, but I brushed it off. It was probably nothing.

I was an idiot.

"That's my big brother Ace," the boy stated, pointing my way. "Mommy says he's going through a phase." I resisted the urge to face-palm.  _Way to go, Luffy. Why don't tell him my birthday while you're at it._  Actually, knowing Roger he'd already been informed. That man loved to talk.  _Age?_ Nope, no good.  _Blood type?_ That was Roger we were talking about.  _Hell, even my sexual preference!_

…He'd probably know that, too.  _Stupid fathers._

I find it necessary to note that, at that point in my life, I hadn't realized I was gay. In any case, that was a perfect example of an overreaction made by a teenage brat. I was such a little drama queen. Ah well. At least I grew out of it… mostly.

I internally groaned when I saw the amused curve of Marco's lips—what I assumed was his way of laughing at me—and sunk back into the sofa, arms folded. He didn't seem fazed by it, taking that chance to approach me with my brother clinging to his side.

"A pleasure," he greeted, reaching out his hand.

I looked at the appendage for a moment, reluctant, but Luffy seemed to like him and if he was going to work for our family then I knew I had to try to get along with him; we were going to be seeing a lot more of each other after this. So, begrudgingly, I took his hand. His smile widened, just a little.

When I let go of the strong, calloused appendage, my parents returned from the kitchen. He greeted them just as he had my brother and I, a friendly smile in place the whole time. Roger officially introduced him to us—said they met on one of his more recent business trips and that Marco was going to help Mom take care of us while he was away, as well as clean and help Luffy with his studies. I scoffed at the last bit.  _Good luck—you'll need it._

Looking back, I wonder why my father offered to let Marco work for us in the first place. He never provided much of a reason.

For the most part, Marco was quiet. He was a man of few words and sometimes I forgot he was there—until I walked into the kitchen to see the blond man helping my mother prepare dinner or assisting my brother with school work. Other than completing his duties, he was almost like a phantom. With his room being on the second floor across from mine I would sometimes see him going in and out, but he never bothered me—didn't speak unless spoken to.

Maybe that was why my mother started to get attached to the man—treated him like part of the family. During that first week, he completed every task he was assigned with ease and would retreat to his room or leave whenever there was nothing else to do. She felt bad, so when my father left shortly for his latest business venture she invited him to sit with us for dinner rather than eat alone like he was so prone to doing. Even I had to admit it was a little sad, watching the man go about his day with little to no social interaction.

My mother smiled as we ate, looking across to the blond man who'd she'd come to like. He'd risen above her expectations and gained her approval in just over seven days, which was impressive; Mom wasn't easily swayed.

"So do you know anyone here?" she asked.

He paused in eating to look up, offering a small smile. "I don't."

"What about where you're from? Did you have family back home?"

At that last bit he tensed briefly. Maybe he thought no one noticed, but I did. I was curious, I admitted, but even my stupid, young self understood that there were some things better left unsaid.

Continuing to smile, he shook his head. "There's no one," he answered.

I could see a hint of sympathy in my mother's eyes. Before she met Roger, she'd been alone as well. Her parents died young—one suicide, the other illness. Mom and Dad didn't talk much about their pasts, so I didn't know many of the details. I was well aware that Roger didn't know his parents—that he was practically raised by Grandpa Garp from the age of ten—but I wasn't aware of how he came to be alone. As I thought about it more, I realized how lucky I was to have the family that I did.

What did it feel like to go through life with nothing?

"I'm sorry to hear that," Rouge said, sympathy ringing through her voice.

He shook his head. "It's fine. I'm used to it."

"You don't have a mom or dad?" Luffy asked. I shot him a glare from across the table but it went unnoticed.

Marco, again, shook his head, "Not anymore."

"And no brothers like Ace?"

Man, if I knew then what I do now, I probably would have laughed—insensitive, I know, but it was a pretty funny question, looking back. Marco didn't seem to think the same. His expression fell, shoulders slouched just a bit, and he repeated himself softly. "There's no one."

"Oh," the brat noised dumbly, large eyes blinking at the blond before one of his infamous grins made its way to his face. "Then you can be me 'n Ace's brother!"

"Idiot," I chastised from my spot, "it doesn't work like that."

"Shishishi!"

Glancing back to Marco, I noticed a small fleck of hope vanish from his eyes. Did he actually  _like_  Luffy's suggestion? Recalling his words from earlier, I thought that maybe he did. If my hunch was correct, he wasn't always alone. He, too, had people he cared for once upon a time. Maybe he had little brothers and sisters. Maybe his family was vast long ago. Maybe he missed them.

Well, I didn't dwell on it—simply continued eating.

I spent a lot of time in my room. My mother had a habit of asking me to help Luffy with his studies right after dinner because otherwise they wouldn't see me for the duration of the night, but with Marco there she could no longer use that as an excuse to keep me around. I'm not sure why I didn't like spending time with them. It might have been that, at the age I was, I needed space—independence. I needed to feel like I was in control of my life. To do that, I had to get away from it all. I guess it was a normal, teenage thing.

For the most part, despite my attitude problems, I was a pretty well-behaved kid. I never snuck out or got into fights—that came later. At thirteen, most of what I did in my free time was hang out with friends, watch TV and play video games. And yes, it was boring as hell.

That particular night I didn't feel like doing much of anything. Vacation had started. Mom and Luffy went one town over to visit Grandpa Garp and Dragon for the weekend and I, when asked, decided not to go. It wasn't like I didn't want to see them, more like… I needed a break from everything. Marco had been with us for just under a month at that point and I was still wary of him. In fact, we hadn't held a single conversation. That was another reason I stayed behind—to keep an eye on the house, just in case. Couldn't trust someone I barely knew, could I?

Twilight arrived all too soon and I lied motionless on my bed, looking up at the beige ceiling illuminated only by my bedside lamp. Even still, I didn't want to sleep. It felt too early—it was summer break, after all. That was what fed my boredom; all of my friends were on vacation, leaving me behind. Dad probably had somewhere planned for us to go before school started back up, but in that moment I was bored. A bored teenager is  _not_  a pleasant sight.

I suppose that was why my mind began wandering. Eventually, though, it settled on our housekeeper. Marco was… enigmatic. From what I heard from the short conversations he had with my family, he didn't talk about himself much. In fact, he avoided the subject whenever possible. To a normal person it would seem that he had a rough past and would be left at that. Not me—my adolescent brain  _craved_  adventure. He had to be hiding something, right? That was the only  _logical_ explanation. Maybe he was a criminal hiding from the government—or perhaps he was after my father's fortune. Mass murderer? Possibly, but… didn't seem the type. Then again, it's always who you least expect, right? He might have been quiet and antisocial because he had blood on his hands and didn't want us to know.

Sighing, I sat up. That train of thought was going nowhere. Deciding that my grumbling stomach deserved some attention, I hopped off my bed and headed to the door. The slab of wood opened to eerie quiet. I wasn't used to that. Normally Luffy would be running around, playing some made-up game until Mom told him for the seventh time to get to bed. When dad was home, he'd sit in the living room until the early hours of the morn, going through documents or relaxing with my mother. Instead I walked out into silence.

Not wanting to linger, I hurried down the stairs to the main floor. After a short walk down the hall I turned right into the kitchen entranceway. For a moment I froze, my eyes catching on the tall blond sitting at the table. He sat upright in his chair, his large, calloused hands holding tightly to a book. Reading glasses hung about his face as his eyes scrolled the lines of words before, slowly, they turned to me.

I jolted, just a bit. His gaze was piercing and, in a way, I felt like I couldn't move. I never felt such intimidation from someone's stare before then. But when his expression relaxed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, all of that vanished. Snapping out of my stupor, I headed over to the fridge, scouring for sustenance.

It was hard to keep focused on my search through the fridge, especially after the outlandish stories I'd invented about the man sitting behind me. If he was a mass murderer, that was the opportune chance to get his kill. Were he after my father's fortune, he could have kidnapped me right there and demanded a ransom. But he didn't. Everything remained perfectly still, eerily silent aside from the occasional flip of a page.

The suspense was killing me.

I turned around, shutting the fridge without retrieving a single morsel of food. Brow furrowed and fist clenched, I was determined not to back down. I would face my uncertainty head-on like a man!

…Did I mention that I was an idiot? I did? Okay, good. Just checking.

Marco looked away from his book, turning unreadable eyes to me. I flinched under his gaze, his tired face staring into mine. What must it have looked like from his perspective? What was going on in his head as he watched me fumble about, finally acknowledging him after weeks of service? Was he happy? Confused? What did he think I was doing? What _was_ I doing?

Of course, the first thing to escape my mouth was not a word of kindness or gratitude, nor was it eloquent. I blame this fact on being thirteen. Kids, by nature, just aren't very tactful creatures. That's what I keep telling myself. "D-did you ever kill someone?" I blurted, face dead-serious.

At first he seemed perplexed—taken off guard by my blunt inquiry. We stood in a brief silence, watching each other intently as his surprise settled into a dull, foreign expression. He put the book down to fully face me, giving me his undivided attention.

"What if I did?"

I shuddered at the emotionless tone of his voice, the underlying seriousness of his face. My body felt cold as I took him in, searching those bright, blue eyes for some hint of falsity. I found none. My mind raced and I took a step back, scanning my peripheral vision for the nearest exit. I knew I had to be prepared because there was nothing in his face that showed he was lying—playing a trick. Still, when he moved his hand towards me, my legs froze in place, like I couldn't move— _didn't want_  to move. I was scared but at the same time I didn't want to go. So I shut my eyes. Pretended I couldn't see him. Pretended he wasn't there.

He patted my head, messing with my dark strands and leaving them a frazzled mess. When he laughed the sound was light and warm, a comfort to my restless state. I opened my eyes, looked up to see the first genuine smile I ever had from him. He was truly amused. Laughing at my expense.

Just like back then.

"Hungry?" he asked. That was the first time, out of all the weeks he'd been there, that he initiated a conversation.

I didn't answer, a slight heat rising to my cheeks as I realized how ridiculous I likely appeared to the man. Apparently I didn't have to say anything; he took my silence as confirmation and stood from his seat, heading over to the fridge just as I had minutes before.

Then he turned to me. "Well?" he asked. "What do you want yoi?"

I narrowed my eyes, catching the verbal tick and hint of an accent seeping through his words. It felt strange; I hadn't heard him talk like that before, yet it sounded almost natural. It sounded like himself. But I didn't understand why that was. I didn't understand how meeting one quiet man and hearing him speak could give me such a rush of familiarity. "Doesn't matter," I replied with a shrug, slipping into a seat at the table as I decided to play that scenario out until the end.

I heard him mutter something under his breath but couldn't catch it, only realizing much later what it was:  _"Well, you've never been a picky eater."_  In a way, I wish I heard it then. How could the blond have possibly explained that to me? It would have been fun to watch him fumble about, trying to lie his way through a thirteen-year-old Ace's suspicion. Too bad I wasn't paying attention. Damn you, hindsight.

As the man went about searching for something for my young self to eat, I decided to interrogate him—though said interrogation lacked the heavy atmosphere and overall seriousness that should have been present. That was my chance to find out whether or not my theories about him were correct, though, and I wasn't about to pass it up. "Where are you from?" I asked.

"Hm?" He wasn't paying much attention, removing a small pile of food that I can't recall. I don't remember what we ate that night or how long it took to prepare. I just remember our talk.

"You have an accent," I pointed, "Where from?"

For a second he paused, eyes to the counter as he thought. Finally he turned to me, a small, forced smile on his lips. "I don't remember."

Back then I raised an eyebrow in confusion, waiting for an explanation that never came. Maybe it was a good thing I didn't know. I wasn't ready. When he finally confided the truth I was able to understand. I could empathize—could  _feel_  his isolation. It was like a long, hard, bitter journey and I had been with him every step of the way. I suffered what he suffered. I watched the world grow and change around him as he remained a fixed point in time, unable to move forward. I could finally tell him _I'm sorry._ So, so,  _so_ sorry.

But on that day, I said nothing. In the end, he found me but I was still lost. The fairy-tale was just that and I didn't understand that the day from my memories—one snowy winter in a foreign country—was the first time he confided in me. But a decade later, I couldn't recall.

The dream was gone and when I woke, nothing remained.


	4. Eternity and a Moment

Have you ever met that one person and things just… click? No, no, I'm not taking about a lover. I didn't need one of those—too much trouble for what they're worth. No, I'm talking about that friend that just seems to stick with you even when things get rough—that person whose existence just seems to brighten the world around you. For me, that was Sabo.

We met when I was just a runt, a shy little brat who clung to his mother's pant-leg in any unfamiliar situation. It was about two years after I'd attained a certain white scarf I still have. I wasn't a very social child and, given the opportunity, I stuck as close to my family as possible.

Mom didn't like that.

One day the snow fell. There wasn't much of it—not like that foreign country already fading from my memories—but still the ground glistened with blinding white. We happened to be at the local park. Why? Well, Rouge decided she wanted to try to socialize us. There weren't many children in our neighbourhood and kindergarten wasn't working with me. Let's just say I took antisocial to a whole new level. And I don't even know why. I was fine when I was younger but… something happened. People scared me.

After being pushed onto the play equipment and abandoned by my oh-so-loving parent who'd gone to help Luffy onto the swing, I began to panic. About a dozen kids whizzed about, passing by as though I were invisible. Their parents stood around us. I could feel their stares, the danger behind them. They were strangers. I didn't know them. What if they hurt me?

I didn't notice how fast I was breathing. My head felt light and feathery and the world just _wouldn't stay still._ Before I could hyperventilate, though, I found myself on the ground, face-first in the snow. Immediately the chill set in and I pushed myself up, mind fuzzy as I tried to comprehend what happened. My face felt like it was burning raw from the cold. I sniffed, blinking, trying to register what was going on. How did I fall?

"Sorry!" a tiny, high-pitched voice rang out. A shadow hovered over me, changing the pure white of the snow to a pale gray. Looking up I saw a boy crouching beside me, watching curiously. "You okay?"

I swallowed nervously, nodding my head.

The boy's face broke out into a wide grin, one that rivaled my brother's, and he helped me up. I felt weak on my feet, the rush of adrenaline from my fall fading fast. He seemed to notice and grabbed my hand, pulling me to the side of the playground that was unoccupied. I didn't protest, simply staring at his fuzzy blond hair. It reminded me of someone—a fairy-tale fading with time.

He nudged me onto a bench before taking a seat next to me, uncomfortably close. "Does it hurt?"

I shook my head slowly, staring at my feet.

"Good!" he exclaimed, smiling at me. "I'm Sabo," he announced, "what's your name?"

So that was what you were supposed to do when you met someone, was it? I wasn't aware. Most of my life it was just me and my mother—only later had Roger and Luffy come into the picture, along with their side of the family. Maybe if I told him my name I could make a friend—my _first_ friend.

Tightening my fists from within my mittens, I gathered all of my courage. "Ace," I mumbled shyly.

"What?"

"Ace…"

"I can't hear you," he stated.

"ACE!" I shouted in response, shocked by how loud my voice got.

Sabo just laughed. "What a weird name!"

I pouted, my cheeks puffing out defensively. "Sabo's weirder."

"No it isn't! It's cool!"

"Weird," I continued.

Again he laughed. I joined him. The strange thing about Sabo was that no matter what he said, he just seemed to lighten the mood. Our faces were flushed with cold but I didn't really feel it. He started telling me a story—of what, I can't recall—and I simply sat there and listened, smiling contentedly. That was the first time I'd spoken to someone my age. At school I was withdrawn. Uttering so much as a word felt like an unachievable goal. With him, something changed. It felt like I'd known him forever.

"Wanna play?"

His question brought me back to reality and I looked at him with large eyes. There was nothing but excitement on his face as he slipped off the bench and held out his hand for me. I looked over at the playground, watching the other children run about, nervousness setting in. He wanted me to go over there with him. He wanted me to try. We just learned each other's names yet I didn't want to refuse. The slight nod of my head made him grin and he grabbed my hand, pulling me over to a group of children. I fidgeted in place as they all stopped to gawk at me.

"This is Ace," he declared merrily, unaffected by the three sets of eyes on him. At the time he and I were opposites. He relished the attention while I… well, I shied away. He turned to me then, looking me in the eyes. "That's Koala," he said, pointing to the sole girl in the group.

She smiled at me and I blushed, turning away.

"And these two are…" His voice faded and an awkward silence fell, broken only by the other kids playing around us. "…Who are you?"

I couldn't help but laugh. He didn't even know their names. Sabo was always like that. It didn't matter who you were, didn't even matter if he knew your name, he considered you a friend. There was something about him that just drew people to him. He was always surrounded by others, warm like the sun.

That was the shortest friendship I had.

We met regularly for about three weeks before he left. My first friend wasn't a local—only visiting for the holidays. I remember the day he and his older sister came to my house, telling me they were leaving. I cried more than I ever remember crying before, my arms wrapped around his waist to prevent him from going. I hadn't even known him long.

Well, that was a fun side story. I suppose I should return to where I was before—the summer when I was thirteen. After our conversation that one night, I pretty much left our housekeeper alone. Why? Well, part of it was from the embarrassment of asking if he was a murderer. I had pride, thank you. Another reason was because I was pissed at Roger and therefore less sociable all-around. Sometimes I wanted to kill that guy.

It was the beginning of August when he told us the news. We were moving. Honestly, I don't remember the reason he gave us, but he had my mother agreeing to it so it must have been good. That didn't change my attitude towards it.

"I'm not going," I declared, storming up to my room to continue the evening in seclusion.

"Wait for me!" Luffy called from behind, waving to the three adults as he followed me up the stairs. I'd slammed my door before he caught up and could hear him knocking. "Ace, let me in!"

Flopping onto my bed, I let out a groan. Other than Luffy whining at the door, everything was still—quiet. I didn't want to leave. As you may have guessed by what you've learned of me so far, I'm not good with change. A Christmas trip to another country? Hated it. Leaving my first home? Hated it. New housekeeper? Well, you get the point.

"Ace!" my younger sibling called again, his pout evident in his voice.

After a moment of silence between us, I sat up with a sigh, heading over to the door. I opened it and there he was, his childish eyes blinking up at me, asking for entry. Who could say 'no' to that face? With yet another sigh I stepped aside, herding him in before shutting the door once more.

And, again, I fell onto my mattress.

Luffy jumped up next to me, his bottom lip stuck out in a pout. He swung his legs back and forth, waiting for some kind of signal from me so that he could start talking. When none came and he'd had enough of waiting, he grinned. "Hey, Ace, wanna play a game?"

I smothered my face into my pillow, facing away from him. "No, Luffy."

"Why not?"

"I'm not in the mood."

"Why?"

"Because…"

"Why?"

And so the questions started. "If you're going to be annoying I'm kicking you out." Immediately he pressed his lips together, slapping his hands over his mouth. I glanced at him, the curl of a smile just barely visible on my lips before I turned back around. The kid idolized me. To him, I was the coolest, strongest person ever. His world was still small. He didn't understand just how much he still had to see, how much there was to learn. Well, I wasn't much better, looking back.

"…Hey, Ace?" he began, voice uncharacteristically soft.

"Hm?" I grunted into my pillow.

"Why are you sad?"

It was a good question. Why was I sad? It was because I hated change. When my father told us we'd be leaving—and it wasn't just to a new house, but a new city altogether—it felt like something was ending. I had friends there—people I cared about. That house held most of my memories. I could remember when Luffy's room was on the main floor with my parents—when there was a wooden cradle in the middle of the room. I could recall his first steps, when he slipped and hit his face against the wall. I remembered Dragon and Grandpa Garp coming to visit for each birthday, every holiday.

I wasn't good at letting go.

Being nudged by my baby brother, I sighed and sat up, running my hand through the matted mess atop his head. "It's complicated, alright?"

"You always say that!" he complained.

"Yeah? Well—"

_Knock knock._

I glared at the door, my infamous 'I-hate-the-world' scowl taking over. "Piss off!" I shouted, knowing that it had to be that dumbass father of mine. Mom wasn't stupid enough to bother me when I was upset.

At first the person on the other side was silent, taken aback by the venom in my words. "Can I come in?"

The scowl melted from my face and I blinked dumbly at the door, trying to register where I heard that voice before. Marco really didn't have much of a presence; sometimes I would forget he existed altogether. He didn't talk much. It was easy to forget what he sounded like, even if I saw him every day. Never before had he come to my door and I was curious about what he had to say. At that point I was sure he wasn't an assassin or Mafioso, so… where was the harm? At least it wasn't Roger.

I didn't want him to know I was curious, though, so I made my tone more reserved, "Fine."

The knob turned and door creaked open, revealing that emotionless face I was slowly becoming accustomed to. He stepped in and shut the door behind him, Luffy bounding to his feet to greet his tutor. My brother had become quite fond of Marco over the past month and a half—dare I say attached? And apparently the blond _actually_ got through that thick skull of his because he started understanding how to multiply. Dividing was a whole other story but, well, one thing at a time, right? Either way, it was progress. I needed to know what sorcery he used to create such a miracle.

His mouth curved into a slight smile when he bent down and caught Luffy in his arms. My brother giggled as he fell into the man's grasp, pulling away to grab onto his hand and point at me. "I think Ace is going through a phase again."

"Shut up, you brat," I growled, a mix of irritation and embarrassment in my tone.

"Shishishi!"

Marco, looking between us siblings, let out an airy breath. "Oi, Luffy," he called. My brother's head snapped towards the voice, curiosity lying within those big eyes of his. "Mind giving us a minute?"

At first the boy didn't seem to get it, that vacant look firmly attached to his features. But as he continued to look into his tutor's eyes his face scrunched up in dissatisfaction. He didn't argue though, which was a surprise for me; he simply nodded and walked out of the room. Luffy _listened._ Whatever witchcraft the man was using, I needed in on it.

Once the brat had vacated the area, the blond pulled out my desk chair and dropped onto it, resting his ankle on his opposing knee. I tried not to stare but I'd never seen him in such a relaxed pose before; he kept his manners up in front of my family. It was hard but I kept my interest from showing on my face. Still, with those deep, blue eyes of his staring at me it was hard to keep focused.

"You don't want to leave yoi," he stated rather than asked, that distinct accent from before peeking through his words.

"No shit," I replied, avoiding his gaze. I didn't realize it until later but Marco could see right through me—past the childish bravado I attempted to create. That's why my harsh words and snappy tone never seemed to faze him. In fact, I dared to think that he was amused by it.

"Why?" he questioned, leaning back in his seat as half-lidded eyes met mine.

I turned away. My hands closed around my sheets as I thought, part of me wanting to confide in him, the other part not ready to trust him. Still, the silence was unbearable and I had to say something. It didn't look like he planned on leaving without talking to me first. I took a deep breath, a salty smell drowned out by the scent of my room entering my nostrils. "…Have you ever left home without wanting to?"

"I have." The response was snappy, with no hesitation whatsoever. He didn't need to think about it. I didn't know then, but it was a topic that frequented his thoughts, always at the forefront of his mind. When he saw my curiosity he replied simply, "I don't stay in one place for long yoi."

He moved around a lot? I had half a mind to ask why but never did, finding something foreboding in the tone of his voice. But I had to ask _something._ With nothing but curiosity and a bit of apprehension in my mind, I turned to look out the window. "Are you leaving us, too?"

There was nothing deep hidden behind my words; I wasn't secretly asking him to stick with us. I merely asked a question. It meant more to him, though. For the first time in my short, short life, during our brief acquaintanceship, I saw him fully open his eyes. It didn't last long and it wasn't as dramatic as you might think, but it piqued my interest. So I could surprise him, too. _Very interesting…_

He glanced away, closing his eyes as he moved to rest his chin on his hand. "Do you want that yoi?"

I snorted, crossing my arms. "I don't care what happens to you." At the time, I spoke honestly. We'd had a total of two conversations since he started living in the room across from mine. We were, by no means, close. Looking back I feel guilty, though. He'd found me. After so many long, lonely years he finally found me and I didn't even care. In my defense, I was just a brat. I didn't seem to fully realize that words could hurt—or maybe I just didn't care. I don't know; it was so long ago that I forgot. Still, even my dumbass self could catch the air thickening, far more weighted than when he first walked in. I had to say something.

"But," I decided to add in a poor attempt to fix my harsh statement, "Luffy likes you, so…" Unable to face him, I looked to my lap.

Just as he had before, he reached a large, calloused hand to tousle my hair, leaving it in disarray. I growled my irritation but it fell when I saw his smile, genuine and simple despite what I said to him before. He was… really strange. I couldn't understand him, then and even now. Marco remains forever a mystery I can't solve. Maybe that's what I like about him. He certainly keeps me guessing.

"Start packing."

I snapped out of my stupor and glared. "I'm not going."

Marco stood, towering above me. "You don't have much of a choice yoi."

Since when did he have a commanding side? Who had given him permission to lord over me? My scowl showed my disdain and I glared my hardest. "I don't—"

"The world doesn't care what you want, Ace." His voice was hard and merciless as he turned away from me, staring out into the room. I was speechless so he decided to continue. "You can't run away from change yoi. The world won't wait for you."

I remained silent, mouth slightly ajar. No one had ever been that blunt with me before. No one had been that understandably cruel. I started to wonder what he'd been through to make him say that.

In a low, almost inaudible murmur, Marco continued. "Nothing lasts forever, Ace."

He didn't linger and I was left to my thoughts. I thought long and hard about those words, hearing something heartbreaking behind them. What had Marco been through to learn that? What had been torn away from him that warranted such a belief? I pondered it for a while. It had to be something important to him—something irreplaceable lost with time. Trying to understand, I sifted through my mind for what mattered most to me. It wasn't long before three faces arrived in my mind. Don't get me wrong, though; Roger's was a little hazier than the others. I was still mad, after all.

Family was important. If I lost them… if I was alone…

I flinched when a warm droplet hit the back of my hand. I stared at it for a moment, my brain taking a while to register what it was, then moved to wipe my eyes. The tears wouldn't stop, though. Why was I crying? It was a purely hypothetical situation! At least, I thought it was. For me it was a simple 'what if' scenario, but for Marco…

Was that his reality?

Sniffling, I slid off the bed and headed to the closet. Better to start packing sooner rather than later, right? I sifted through my clothes, tossing aside what no longer fit or was too worn out to be properly called clothing. It wasn't until I realized I didn't have any boxes that I noticed the clock. It was almost time for dinner and my stomach was voicing its complaints.

Deciding to forego my task until after I ate, I left my room and made for the stairs. I stopped before descending the first step, looking towards the closed door to my right. A faint glow seeped into the hall from the crack beneath it. So Marco was still in there, hm?

For a long while I just stood there awkwardly, battling with myself on what to do. A big part of me wanted to just go downstairs and eat—the scent of whatever Mom was cooking was making me drool—but there was this tiny, almost insignificant urge to stay. Eventually I turned, heading towards his room.

I almost knocked. Eyes widening, I found new tears on my face. Immediately I pulled my hand away, moving to rub the salty liquid from my cheeks. What had me so upset? I didn't feel like crying, so why?

The door opened.

Blue eyes met gray and we stared, motionless for a brief few seconds. He seemed a bit surprised, his vision roving over my puffy, red eyes. It took me a while to notice what he was staring at and I turned away, face flushed with embarrassment.

"Mom wanted me to come get you," I lied. It was believable at least; at some point he started eating dinner with us every night. They treated him like part of the family. Why didn't I, though? "Food's almost done." I knew because of the scent I caught earlier.

The blond simply nodded but didn't move. In my mind all I could think about were those chilling words he uttered before. Marco really was alone. He had no one. I felt something in me shift. I wanted to cheer him up. When I noticed he wasn't moving I reached out to grasp his hand, tugging in an almost Luffy-like fashion. He raised an eyebrow.

"Hurry up," I groaned when he wouldn't budge, cursing my lacking physique. He was like a brick wall and I, well… I was like a piece of string. That's what I got for living comfortably in contemporary society. "Luffy and Roger'll eat everything if we're not careful."

Still he wouldn't move, gawking at me with a very uncharacteristic blank face. I didn't like being watched like that.

"What?" I snapped.

That seemed to bring him back to reality and he shook his head. "Sorry yoi. It's nothing."

His voice still held that burdening melancholy from before, but I wasn't sure how to get rid of it—what to say that would cheer him up. I wasn't good with people. Still, for the first time in years I wanted to help someone. I'd be damned if I passed that up.

"Nothing lasts forever," I confirmed, acknowledging his speech from earlier, "but… it doesn't have to, does it?" I stared at the wooden floor, unable to face him.

"I'm younger than you," I continued when he didn't interrupt, "so it's enough if I stay until you die, right? Then you won't have to be alone."

He squeezed my hand, a minute trembling in his limb. I didn't look up—didn't want to see the expression he wore. "Ace…"

"Come on," I urged, pulling him harder and finding that he was finally moving, "I want to eat, damn it!"

_"Come on, Ace, don't cry!"_

_I tightened my grip around his waist, looking up at him with big, watery eyes. "But—"_

_"We'll meet again one day. I don't know when but… one day."_

_"S-Sabo…" I choked out, pulling away to wipe my eyes. Looking at us then, you wouldn't think I was a few months older. I certainly didn't act it._

_He put his hands on my shoulders, smiling. "Take good care of Luffy, okay?"_

_I gave a reluctant nod, still clutching the hem of his shirt._

_"We'll find each other again, I promise! Then you won't have to be alone."_

Nothing lasts forever, but maybe it doesn't have to.


End file.
